CONTRADARE!
by Iani Kadiri
Summary: "The girl who wished to fly finally had her wings. But when the time came to take flight, they were taken from her, ripped, and given to someone else. Madge...she's the intended Mockingjay. The role was made for her. But still, she couldn't be grounded. She'll always soar. I just wish that she'll take me with her." Pre-HG to post-Mockingjay. T for swears, violence, sex and stuff.
1. Chapter 1: The Girl Who Wished to Fly

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing! I do own a black cat named Doggie, but that's besides the point.**

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I wish I could be something else.

Not anyone else. Every person I know has problems. Every human I know is a prisoner. So it should be something else. A thing. Not human. Yes, that would do nicely. I like trees. They're nice. Keep to themselves, unassuming, often taken for granted, but a lot of people depend on them. I would much like to be a tree, but I wouldn't be able to travel. Hm. An animal maybe. Like a cat. No, those are domesticated. I want something that's unrestricted, something that roams. A rabbit! Nope. Easy prey. Hm. Probably...wait, no. Maybe..._maybe a bird_.

A bird. Oh, that would be _brilliant_. I would be able to fly. To go anywhere I wanted to go, whenever I wanted to, with whom I choose. Or I could fly alone. Whichever. I don't care, as long as I'm flying. If I could take flight, I'd have so many choices that whether I grab all of them or none at all, it wouldn't make any difference. I would be happy. Nothing else would matter.

Until some triggerhappy genius decides to shoot me._ Thank you for adding that possibility, darling brain of mine_. Great. I guess becoming a bird is off the list. But the idea of flying, even if only for an instant, allures me still.

I toss the rag I've been cleaning the mirror with over my shouder. I look to see if it made it to the trashbin. The rag's nowhere in sight. Looks like it got in. I face the mirror again and exhale, fogging up my reflection, and start to trace lines on the moist surface. My face openly lies to me. It's calm. Peaceful. Serene, even. The figures I've drawn begin to melt into something like facial features. I contort my face to fit into them, to no avail. My face looks so ridiculous, contorted and wrinkled up, I almost laugh.

But I start thinking about It again, and when I think about It I get lonely. Then frustrated. Then scared. I try to fight with all I've got when It creeps into my thoughts suddenly, as what had happened just now. It has changed me, and the change isn't good. Sometimes I think I've succeeded, think that I'm finally in control of my flow of thought and I've finally buried It in the deep recesses of my mind. But when I'm alone I think too much. When I think too much I go in too deep, and the horrid memory is unearthed yet again. It's been a year. I should've recovered by now, should be okay. But _I'm not_. Why do I always end up going back to square one?

I stare at nothing in particular for a long time, trying to think happy thoughts, trying very hard. But apparently not hard enough. The figures in the mirror begin to curl and blend into something sinister, so I zone myself out.

It's a gift, really. When things get unbearable for me, I do this. It used to happen on its own when I was younger, but eventually I yearned for the convenient numbness. It took years of practice, but now it comes easily. Convert my surroundings into a blur, numbing my senses. The only downside is that my brain shifts into overdrive, and my head isn't exactly a welcoming place either. So in almost no time at all, I will my eyes to focus again. Good thing the figures are gone, though.

The mirror is finished. I now need something else to clean, fix or rearrange. Mother had told me when I was little that if I was upset, whether the problem be big or small, I should tidy up my surroundings so I could think straight. It's helped me on numerous instances, but_ not today_.

I've straightened up my whole room three times this afternoon, arranging books alphabetically according to title, alphabetically according to author, then according to color, folding an refolding clothes, making and remaking my bed, and with each time I felt like the walls around me were inching closer and closer. Slowly, moving only when they thought I wasn't looking.

I _need_ to get out of this house.

Almost as soon as I think of it, I'm outside. I take a sharp breath. Winter air is always wonderful. I march on, trying to decide where I should go. District 12 is quite big, especially for a girl my age who usually goes around on foot. But it still isn't very large. In our country of Panem, there's the Capitol, the center in terms of government, financial standing, technological advancement and everything else, and then there are the twelve, no, thirteen outlying districts, who in contrast struggle to make ends meet. Out of them all, our district is the smallest and least populated.

The places I could sneak off to that I haven't explored yet could be counted in one hand. I have no clue what I'm going to do, but at least out here I feel like I could breathe more. Before I get too far, I do a double take and look hard at our front door. I should at least tell Mother that I would be taking a walk, but she's probably sleeping. Better not to wake her. She needs all the rest she can get.

Listening to the way my boots crunch against the snow adds a bit of a spring to my step. I love being outdoors. I start to make my steps heavier, getting a louder sound each time. I continue stomping, then I start jogging. Gradually, I break into a run. I've always been running. At school, we would have competitions, and I always make sure I participate. The other sports are fine, but running has always been one of the best for me. The way air swiftly envelops and cuts around me, how the speed makes my eyes water, how it sends my hair in all directions...when I run I feel like I could do anything. A most magical feeling._ It's the closest thing I have to_ _flying_.

Suddenly, something cold and wet hits the left side of my head, and I trip over in surprise. Whoever had hit me with that snowball, I have to admit, had good eyes. It was a clean hit to my ear, and now it was full of snow. I look up to see a warm smile, with two front teeth missing, waiting to greet me.

"Sorry about that. I've been calling you over and over, but you didn't hear me," she said.

I shake my head as she helps get me on my feet. "Could you say that again? I couldn't quite hear you," I shout while pointing to my snow-filled ear.

Her big grey eyes get even bigger, and genuine worry takes her over. She holds my head with her right hand and proceeds to snap profusely with her left, all the while looking at me like I was going to puke out some slugs or whatnot. The poor thing seriously thinks she has rendered me deaf. I laugh so hard, I'm convinced I'm going to cry. When I finish, it's so tempting to resume again. Her eyes are practically bulging. She's infuriated, that's for sure. I'm surprised they haven't fallen out of their sockets by now.

"I thought I broke you!" She grumbled, laughed and whined at the sky, and made a series of angry noises that didn't sound menacing at all.

Still laughing, I apologised. "I think it'll take more than a hard-hitting snowball to deafen me," I say.

"I can't believe I believed you," she says. She turns on her heel and starts to walk off.

Again, I apologize, very loudly this time. I roll up a snowball and throw it right at her back. "Hey Katniss, I'm sorry!"

She faces me, arms crossed. Her black hair done up in two untidy but pretty-looking braids flutter slightly in the cold breeze. She rarely lets her tresses down, but when she does I can't help but envy her a little. Her mane is straight and manageable, whereas my head is all chaotic and unruly. I _swear_ it has a life of its own. I also love how her olive skin contrasts her lively grey eyes. A lot of people from her part of town, nicknamed the Seam for its being in the outskirts of District 12, share the same features. But Katniss Everdeen still manages to stand out.

She has a tendency to come off as shy, constantly slouching and frequently keeping to herself. But if you observe her, and once you get her to talk, a quiet confidence that sets her apart from most girls around will begin to emanate. Her face is lovely, but many might consider her an unconventional beauty. The contours of her face are all delicate; cheekbones high but not prominent, and her nose is narrow. In contrast, the outer edges of her eyes slope sharply upwards, similar to the eyes of a wolf. Her moderately thick brows are so straight they barely have an arch, and also point upwards, albeit more softly. It gives an elegantly fierce look to her face, something not usually seen in an eleven year old.

Now her pretty little brows are furrowed and she's grimacing so_ convincingly_. But I know it's all just mock anger. We've known each other since forever. We're even in the same class in school. I bend down and make a bunch of snowballs around my feet. "I guess I'm just gonna have to throw a few more chilly sorries at you, huh?" I say.

She does her adorable, incomplete by two teeth, smile again. "If you can hit me," she says, her eyes challenging me.

We stare each other down. Who will move first? Katniss' stance slowly changes. She's ready to break into a run. My eyes aren't as good as hers. Once she moves I'll have a hard time hitting her. My hand clenches the snowball, I tense my arm, and throw hard, aiming for her face. "Hope you don't mind losing another tooth!"

She ducks and the snowball lands on someone behind her. Quite audibly._ And on the face, too_.

The figure turns out to be a boy, also my age. The pretty curls of his blonde hair are sprinkled with snow, so is his scarf, so is his overcoat, so is his face. Especially his face. He wipes at it with his sleeve, then looks at me with his startling blue eyes. They crinkle as he smiles slightly. "I'd rather not lose any of my teeth, thanks," he says as he flashes his smile with full force. I fight the refllex to look away. That would be too obvious of me... Peeta Mellark. Of all the boys in District 12 I could have hit hard with a snowball, it had to be _him_.

Katniss, face flushed, still has her mouth agape. I think a fly could venture in and out of there and she wouldn't even bat a lash. She looks at me, then at him, then back at me. _Apologize,_ she mouths, bewildered that I haven't done that yet. Funny how I was just apologizing to her a while ago. Not even five minutes later, I have to say sorry _again_. I feel his eyes on me and my heart races. Momentarily, I forget how to speak. So I just blink at her. Her face looks as if I've comitted a mortal sin. Precious. "Sorry about that, Peeta," she says for me. In response, he nods. He doesn't even look at her. His eyes are trained on me. On _me_.

I pretend to look for something on the ground while venturing into the space between them. "What in the world are you doing _now_?" Her tone is exasperated with a hint of amusement. Peeta starts to speak but I sush him and pretend to concentrate. I look up at them momentarily to take a picture with my mind. They're total opposites, and I'm not just talking about their physical features.

Unlike Katniss, Peeta socializes easily and has a bunch of friends. His confidence is anything but quiet. As young as he is, he is very eloquent. Has a way with words, he does. A talker. But never to the point that he's annoying. If anything, the only irritating thing about him is that he's too nice. Unrealistically nice. He's kind and beautiful and smart and talented and...

"Help me look around for his brain. I think I've knocked it out," I say. Peeta bursts out laughing while Katniss face contorts into a mishmash of emotions, undecided whether to smack me or just laugh along. She kind of resembles an angry pug. _Like night and day, they are_. In more ways than one.

"It's got to be here _some_where," I continue. I scratch my head in feigned concern.

"I guess I'm gonna have to go without it, then," he chuckles. "If I take any longer my mom's gonna_ kill_ me," He waves goodbye and jogs hurriedly away. My stomach goes all twisty. I know, for a fact, that Mrs. Mellark is more than capable of doing her son such harm. I've even witnessed it a few times. Not only him, but his sweet older brothers as well. But mostly him. Why she would beat him for the smallest, most trivial things is beyond me. She's one of the most unpleasant ladies in District 12 I know of. That wretch...

"You're unbelievable," says Katniss. She starts walking in the direction of the Seam and I follow. I smile at her, pestering her with my close proximity to her face. _Unbelievable is a complement._ She scoffs but smiles back. I look her over and again I feel the envy creeping back in. I'm not just jealous of her hair, or of her face. I'm jealous of everything she has. What's unbelievable is how oblivious she is.

_Peeta loves her_. Always has. She's absolutely unaware of it, no matter how obvious he is. But in fairness, he's very subtle in showing it. If he didn't tell me all about it, in truth, I wouldn't be able to tell. The only reason why I say it's obvious is because I know about it. To the untrained eye, it would seem as if he had his sights on_ me_. Everytime he would encounter Katniss and I he would always be looking straight at me, talking to me, _never her_. For a time, I myself was fooled into thinking just that. That it was me he wanted. But that's exactly why he never talks to her, because he's not sure how to handle his feelings. And his feelings are very _strong_.

He told me all about it one time when I went over to his place. We were at the back of his house by a tree, which he fondly calls Grammy, because it was his grandmother who had planted it there. We were sitting on Grammy's roots, clutching our sketchpads and just doodling away. I looked over to inspect his work, and he was drawing a wee flower with such detail. I admire his work, but that wasn't what caught my eye. On the bottom left part of the page, I saw a little sketchy drawing of a girl with braided hair. I asked him who it was, and he said it was nobody. But I _insisted_ that it wasn't, and after much debate eventually he confessed that it was Katniss.

He went on from there, telling me animatedly about the first time he saw her, how she sang on that day. I remember it well myself, for I had been there, and it was our first day of school. He fell in love with her when we were _five_. He went on about how tragic it all was, how she acts like he doesn't exist. I wanted to slap him for saying that.

Because what's tragic is that_ I_ fell in love with him when we were five, he knows I exist, we're the greatest of friends, but in that small moment he didn't know that _he had ripped my heart apart._

What's sadder is that I can't hate Katniss even if I tried. And even sadder than that is... I'm still in too deep with him. Until _now_. He doesn't know how I feel, he's completely unaware. It doesn't help that I act cooly around him, like nothing ever was wrong. He will probably never know.

We arrive at Katniss' house. Prim runs out almost instantly and crashes onto her big sister with a happy yelp. The jealousy comes crashing down again. I don't like feeling like this, it's unhealthy.

Their father comes out and I decide I need to walk away. _Right now_. Before another wave of envy comes. Quickly, I say goodbye to Katniss and Prim. I need to make a quick exit before-

"Well, well," he says. I turn to face Mr. Everdeen. Katniss is a spitting image of him, wolf eyes and everything. "What brings you all the way out here?"

"Just taking a walk, sir," I answer. "I was minding my own business until your daughter here attacked me with a boulder of a snowball," I say, pointing a finger at her accusingly. She giggles and nudges me gently with her elbow.

"Yeah, well, she does that a lot," he says with a smile. "You know, attack people," and he laughs along too. Prim joins in with her little trills, then pretends to be a monster, growling and clawing playfully at her sister, then her father, then at me. What I wouldn't give to switch places with Katniss right now.

"I better get going," I say a bit too quickly. I smile, wave goodbye and run. Run as fast as my short legs can carry me. If I run maybe the tears will dry even before they fall. If I go fast enough, _maybe I could fly after all_.

I run until I get to the Meadow. _Perfect_. No one's here. I sit on the ground and let the tears fall. Here, I can wilt away at peace. _Maybe I should stay here_. If I go back home there wouldn't be much to go back to anyway. I'll sleep here tonight. Make myself a little snow house, fill it with lots of fancy snow furniture, make a healthy, glowing snow mother, make a dozen snow siblings, make a snow_ father_...

"That has got to be the _ugliest_ snowman I've _ever_ seen,"

Insults. Steady, light steps. _I know who this is_. Before I could spin around and spit out any of the replies I had listed in my head, he's already sitting beside me. One elbow is propped up on his knee and his fist squashes against his cheek. His lips are curled into a smirk. If he's noticed that I've been crying, he makes no mention of it.

This boy. I realize that I already missed seeing his messy black hair and piercing silver eyes, hearing his voice. And the last time I saw him was only yesterday. _This boy._..he's always around when I need him the most.

"That's _exactly_ what I was going for, Hawthorne. It's you, after all," I say. I get another clump of snow and add it to the snowman's forehead. It looks like a tumor. A horrible,_ horrible_ tumor.

"That has got to be the most _attractive_ snowman I've _ever_ seen," he says. He then forms two snowballs and places them on the snowman's chest. One is huge, and the other is just a bit smaller than my fist. "There, now it's you. You're _gorgeous_!"

A laugh bubbles out of me and I punch him in the rib. "No way. That's still you, kid," I say. He massages the spot that I just hit and widens his eyes, pretending to be hurt. No one can make me laugh like Gale Hawthorne can. "And it's a very accurate rendition of you, if I do say so myself,"

"My boobs look amazing," he says with fake glee. He adds snow to make them bigger and I can't help but laugh again. I add some to the protuding tumor too. He stares at my work. "What's _that_?"

"A third boob," I say nonchalantly. Now it's his turn to laugh. _Hard_. He pushes me in the process and I plunge into the snowman. Or at least I think it was a snowman. Snow-woman. I don't know, it looked so deformed I'm not sure what it was anymore.

I get up, march over to my laughing mess of a friend and push him as well. He doesn't even fight back. He just lays there, smiling at me. "C'mon, get up," I mutter. He shakes his head, so I just lay down beside him. I _love_ how we can go from being a ruckus to pin-drop silent without it ever being awkward. His hand finds mine and he grips it, gently but tightly. I close my eyes. Listening to him breathe is more than enough comfort for me.

His gaze is on me. I open my eyes and look back. A smile is planted on his face. I realize that my cheeks feel hot. I've been smiling the whole time too. They're getting tired, but I can't bring myself to stop.

He sighs and looks to the sky. I look up, then I heave a sigh as well. It's beautiful, a mix of numerous warm colors that contradict the freezing weather. It's almost sunset, but I couldn't care less. Even if I end up staying here for days or weeks I wouldn't mind. _As long as he's here with me, everything's okay._

I feel him shift next to me. Without looking, I can tell that he's lying on his side, facing me. I feel his warm breath on my ear. It soothes me so much, he has no idea. He gives a small chuckle that sends another blast of warmth to the side of my face.

"You're_ insane_, Undersee," he breathes.


	2. Chapter 2: The Wildflower Window

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing! But I do have this pair of horrid wooden clogs. I think mice live in them now. **

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I make my feet go faster.

I can feel myself straining now, but I try not to show it. I don't want to look like I'm tiring out while she's still all smiles, putting very little effort into our race. I see my house closing in. It barely looks any different from the surrounding houses in our neighborhood, all small and grey-looking and worn out, but we both know our target well. We look at each other and she smiles even wider. Our goal's near, and she's about to get _serious_.

My pace quickens. I'm one of the fastest runners in District 12. I hear steps hasten and a blur of golden hair rushes past me. I may be fast, but no one runs like Madge.

She reaches the porch first. "I win!" She says trimphantly, pure joy radiating from her. It's so contagious, I can't help but smile even if my legs feel like they're on fire. Her face is flushed, but I see no trace of sweat.

"And the crowd goes wild," I say, cheering her mockingly. My knees give and I lay on my back, getting snow inside the hood of my overcoat. I shut my eyes, too tired to care. I jab a finger in her general direction. "I'll beat you one day, I _swear_ it."

I hear her feet alight the porch. Her boots mash against the snow, coming closer and closer. Something tickles my face. Probably her hair. I open my eyes and an upside-down grin hovers over me. "I guess you're going to have to run like a _madmadge_," she says, and we both laugh.

A few weeks ago, we had a sports festival in school. There were a lot of events, and several were foot races. I won three out of the four I joined. Madge's one race was the most notable one, though. Until that race, I never knew she could run like that or smile that wide while going so fast, and from the looks of everyone who watched, I guess no one else in District 12 knew, either. She never won in any sporting event in school before. Even her father, the Mayor, appeared shocked.

She had the fastest time record of all races that day. But besides her quick pace, another notable thing about the race was poor Delly Cartwright, who did everything to catch up. She's an extremely friendly, lumpy, heavy-set girl. She put so much effort she was pink all over, sweating buckets. She had a crazed look about her that made everyone laugh in unison. Her hair was sticking out in different directions and she was panting so violently that, after the initial light spirit of it all, people started to actually worry about her.

Madge, who was at the finish line for some time already, ran back to her in an attempt to help, but Delly's father shouted in friendly protest, saying that she could manage fine on her own, and so she stopped. When Delly finished the race, everyone cheered. The day after, the jokes had started in school. Kids from all years were talking about how she had been trying to run like a mad man after Madge, when someone decided to make a wisecrack and update the old saying by making a bad pun. Hence, the term "madmadge" was born.

"I'm going to hunt down whoever thought of that," I say.

"Anyone with a sense of humor that bad should get shot," she answers.

The grim tone of her voice startles me. I look at her and study her face. Her eyes are wide, distant, and her face is blank. "Or they should be sentenced to wear an itchy sweater for the rest of their lives." She looks back down at me and smiles. The tips of her hair tickle my face again. "Or very itchy socks," she continues. "Yep, I think that's _much_ worse."

I shake my head and laugh, both at what she said and what I was thinking. _Of course she wasn't serious_. Madge has a good head on her shoulders. No way would she be seriously talking about shooting someone, even if their capacity for clever jokes was in serious need of work. _But for a second there, the tone of her voice..._

"C'mon, kid," she says while offering a hand. "We better go in, or your dad's gonna have to amputate all of your limbs," I realize that a lot of snow had gotten into my clothes, and were melting against my sweater. I start to shiver, and Madge fools around, pretending to panic at my impending doom. She pulls off her bonnet and her scarf, piles them all over my face and sits on my stomach, locking me to the ground. I struggle and try to get up, but she fastens on to me like a stubborn little leech.

"Get off me! You weigh more than a goat!" I try to sound angry, but I think I fail miserably.

"Not true," she insists. All the warm stuff on my face is removed, revealing Madge's smiling face, inches from mine. Her smile turns into something more mischevious. "I weigh more than three!"

She lifts herself then sends her weight crashing on my stomach anew, sending groans out of my mouth. She repeats the process a few more excruciating times until I can't feel my ribs. Before I yowl at her to quit it, she stops. But the moment she does she begins to bleat softly. _Adorable._ I hate this. I hate how I can never get mad at her. She helps me to my feet while trying to apologize for my ground up ribs in goat-speak. I attempt to bleat back, but it comes out all wrong. "Sounds like a goat being strangled," I mumble to myself.

"Ah. Not true, yet _again_," she says as she wags a finger at me. "You sound like a goat too. A special kind," She holds my hand and leads me to the porch. "A _yodeling_ goat," She does her own interpretation of a yodeling goat and I join along enthusiastically. I notice an old man, a neighbor of mine, passing by. _Crazy kids_, I see him mumble to himself.

Crazy. Yes, that's exactly what we are. But he says it like being crazy's a bad thing.

Well it could be. At school, my friends and I are indeed a crazy bunch. Pushing each other around, cussing at the smallest things just for fun, cutting classes openly. We get into trouble. But the crazy that Madge brings out in me is different. _Special_. One of a kind, like a yodeling goat. Our crazy is pure, happy, celebratory. With my other friends, I'm crazy, sure. But with Madge what comes out of me is unabashed, uncensored, uncaring whether it's the trending kind of crazy thing to say or do.

I'm never like this with anybody else. And I don't think I'm ever as happy. When I'm with her, I feel like I'm glad to be alive. With her life is simple. Life is beautiful. _Life is just grand._

I reach out for the knob of my front door, but instead it lands on her head. My fingers ruffle up her hair. She gives me a small smile. Another simple, beautiful, grand thing is her hair. I swear this girl doesn't own a comb. But it's a good kind of crazy. I like it.

"I should get myself a brush or something," she says. Insane. This girl is insane. Her unruly tumble of hair is one of the most stunning things I've ever seen, and she wants to tame it? No way. Unbelievable. Again, insane.

"You look just fine to me," I say. She raises a pretty little brow in doubt. "You don't need those. I mean, you could brush your hair with a _fork_," I wrench the knob and push the door open. "And you'd still look fine to me," We step inside. Father's not home yet. Must be doing some overtime at the mines.

"Yeah, well, _you're_ used to it," she says. The windows in my small home flood us in soft, warm light, the kind that's present only when the sun is about to set. Madge marches over to the one on the left of our dining table. She always does this when she comes over. Loves to look at the little wildflowers out back. When her head comes in the direct line of fire of the sun, her hair erupts, becoming brighter than before. When my father first introduced her to me, she was by that same window, her hair engulfed. I was only nine years old, and my naive mind was convinced that her hair was made of light,_ just pure light_. "I could be dressed up in a burlap sack and you wouldn't even care," she says as she turns my way and looks at me, grinning somewhat sheepishly.

"Burlap would do wonders for you. It'll bring out your eyes," I bat my lashes at her jokingly, but it's true. Even if she wore a dress made of dirt, she'd still look wonderful.

She laughs and throws her head back. "I don't want my eyes out of my head, Hawthorne," she says. It takes me a few seconds to get her little wisecrack and she laughs even more. This happens a lot with us. She throws a joke, I catch on sluggishly. She does this thing with her hand, imitating the slow crawling motion of a snail, everytime this happens. She never lets it pass. She does this. Every. Single. Time.

"Whatever, _Madeleine_," I snap, and her laugh abruptly stops. She hates it when I call her that.

She scoffs and goes back to admiring the wildflowers. "Madeleine sounds...old," she says with a cringe.

"It's suiting," I say as I come up behind her. The wildflowers are especially beautiful today, but something inside me thinks it's not the flowers at all. "You may look eleven, but I'm convinced you're a wrinkled pruney thing inside." I breathe in and the scent of her hair intoxicates me. Citrus. Lavender. Mint. Lovely. "You're an old soul,"

She spins around, causing her hair to slap me sharply in the face. Her nose is wrinkled at the thought of her being pruney. "I, good sir, am anything but," she says. "By the way, when are you gonna give me back my books?" Oh. I'd nearly forgot all about that.

"Next week. Next, next week tops," I say. "I'm taking my sweet time with the book about the wizard boy. It's getting good,"

"Did you read the thinner books I lent you?" I shake my head. Her bright eyes widen. Her hands grab my shoulders and she shakes me violently until I have double vision. "You should read them! They're fun and rhymey and stuff," she says. _Why do I subject myself to this kind of abuse?_ And yet I laugh.

"I will, I will!" I insist. "I'll start with the one about the green pig and poultry," She lets go of me and nods, satisfied with my answer. She opens her mouth to say something, but a rude interruption in the form of frantic rapping on my front door stops her. "In a minute!" I holler. Madge runs to the door to open it, but whoever had been knocking figured to open it himself. The wood slams painfully against her right hand and her forehead, causing her to stumble back. I scramble to save her from crashing to the floor, but she catches herself. I crouch by her side and examine her injuries. A big bruise begins to form on her hand. Whoever had opened my door with such a rush better have a good explanation. When I raise my head to see the culprit, I'm greeted by a familiar face, and the anger I've mustered melts away. "Mr. Keep? What are you-"

"_Gale_," he says, out of breath. Mr. Keep is a pudgy old bachelor with a permanent cheerful aura to his face. He's a neighbor of ours, a miner like my father. He takes the night shift. Right now, he's not smiling. His expression is solemn, and his eyes are wide in alarm. "Your father," He slumps against the door. "They've _got_ him, Gale, they-"

Before he could say any more, I'm out the door. Father wasn't doing overtime, no, he's been picking apples again. _Again_. And for him to have been able to do that, he had to jump the fence. Doing that is illegal here. Punishable by death. But the Peacekeepers here in District 12 aren't that strict. They usually let things like this pass. But my father...he has this bout with Cray, the Head Peacekeeper. About what, he never really mentions, and I never really ask. But I've seen the way they would stare each other down when they came across each other on the street. My heart beats faster at the thought of what could happen. I run in the direction of the Meadow. When my father jumps the fence, his usual route is just that. My heart beats so hard and sneaks up to my throat. It feels like it's gonna burst. What if they take him away? What's going to happen now? _Why won't my legs go any faster?_

Something tugs angrily at my clothes, forcing me to skid to a stop. I spin around to see Madge, her face startlingly calm as opposed to the even more panicked appearance of her hair. "He's not there," she says evenly. "Mr. Keep said so," She grabs my hand and leads me away from the path to the Meadow, through the Seam, in carefully calculated, swift zigzags around a lot of confused-looking people, to the Justice Building. There, I see a very bored group of Peacekeepers keeping my father at bay, who is having a heated discussion with Cray.

"_Third_ time this week!" Cray bellows. His silvery hair, which is usually combed sideways to hide his shining dome, is sticking up all over the place, making him look even more haggard than he usually does. His face is so red I wouldn't be surprised if he exploded into tiny little Peacekeeper pieces. "You've ignored all my warnings, Hawthorne! I've had just about_ enough_ of you,"

"Why don't you reprimand the others, then?" my father shouts, sending spittle flying all over the place and onto a few Peacekeepers' faces. I'd be laughing now if my father weren't in such a huge risk of being imprisoned. _Or worse_. "I'm not the only one who does this and you know it, Cray!" Yep, definitely worse.

I take a few steps forward, ready to waltz in uninvited on their conversation, when Madge beats me to it. She places herself exactly between the two angry men, surprising everyone. I hear a few gasps escape a few people behind me. Looking around, I see a small crowd beginning to form, curious on what's to unfold. I don't concern myself with them and what they think. I just hope my father gets out of this in one piece. As well as Madge.

"Mr. Cray?" she begins, her voice sweet and steady. Cray looks down at her, his expression softened down a level, but still very much annoyed. He grunts his greetings, and Madge resumes talking. "What _exactly_ has Mr. Hawthorne done wrong?"

He mumbles something like, "Jumped the fence. Trespassed. Picked apples. Capitol property. Illegal. Shouldn't have." But I'm not sure. He says it all _so_ fast.

"But a lot of other people do it," she says. "What makes his case so different?" Cray's mouth opens and closes, again and again, very rapidly. Definitely at a loss for words, he is. "He's been picking apples for me, for my birthday. I asked him to," she continues. The Peacekeepers holding my father exchange worried looks. The Head Peacekeeper's face becomes a brighter shade of red still. "Couldn't you let this one time slide?" She smiles apologetically at him, the kind that could break hearts with no trouble at all. "Please?"

Cray's face, still beet red, holds a stone cold expression. Impossible as it may seem, he's unmoved by Madge's performance. "All right," he sighs. I take it back. _He's putty in her hands_.

The Peacekeepers release my father. "Consider this a birthday present, Ms. Undersee," he says with a just a hint of venom. Then, he trudges off, the Peacekeepers trailing after him like a gaggle of walking horse droppings. Madge faces me and grins impishly. "Now, can I act, or what?"

"I'd give it an _or what_," I say. "The way you said Mr. Cray? I mean, really. You were pushing it,"

"Hey, kid. Gimme a break. I was improvisi-" My father rushes to her and raises her into the air. A delighted scream comes out of her mouth as he spins her around rapidly. "Mr. Hawthorne!" Something about the way she says the name makes me wish it was me lifting her up.

"Ah, my little savior," he says as he places her on the ground. "I can't thank you _enough_," He reaches down and ruffles her hair.

"Nah, I still owe you," she says. My father had saved her years ago from a pack of wild dogs in the forest. He brought her back to our place to treat her wounds. I was playing out with some friends that afternoon. Imagine my surprise when I find the Mayor's daughter in my house instead of just the usual apples. She was by the wildflower window, and I found myself entranced at the sight of her. _Golden dollops of __hair, made of nothing but pure light._

"Say, where are those apples that nearly got you arrested?" I ask.

"They knocked the lot out of my hands when they caught me," my father says. "Probably still out there in the Meadow,"

"We better go get them, then!" says Madge excitedly, who's already scurrying off, not wasting a second.

"All this stress just for apples," my father mumbles to himself, looking at the shrinking silhouette of the girl who just saved him. He chuckles and shakes his head. He looks at me and tosses his head in Madge's direction. "You ought to go help her," he says with a smirk.

I laugh as I turn on my heel. "Those apples better taste damn good," I look over my shoulder to see my father still smiling. "After all the trouble they caused," I run off, away from my father's laughter, to the glittering mop of golden hair. I see her look back towards me, and she stops on her tracks. She waves both of her hands, beckoning me forward. I read her lips. _Run faster, kid,_ she says.

This always happens. Whether it be with humor or running, or anything else for that matter. She's always a step ahead of me, literally and not. I'm competetive by nature, but with her I don't seem to mind. With her, I don't care. I'm content to watch her from a distance, because there's always the guarantee that she will stop and wait for me. She always makes sure I'm trailing close behind her. She always makes a point to never leave me behind.

She never leaves me behind. _Never._


	3. Chapter 3: The Spot by the Piano

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing! Except panties. Yep, I own a few of those. Aaand.**

**(!) Physical abuse and blood in this chapter. A bunch of thank-you's to Ooyeteri for slapping some sense into me.**

* * *

"Hey, Undersee,"

I wait for him to call me again. I keep my eyes shut and raise my hands to my sides, trying to embrace as much of the cool air as I can, a silent thank you to him for a good end to a good day. I will him to speak, speak now. "Undersee," I smile. The tone of his voice isn't as sing-song as a while ago, it sounds a bit annoyed. He might be getting impatient with me and my musings, or the lack of knowing about them. He absolutely hates it when I keep things from him.

"Yessir, Mr. Hawthorne, sir?" I answer, still locked to my aerial hug of gratitude.

A warm finger taps my forehead lightly two times. "Cut that out. Or maybe you could at least tell me what you're doing," My eyes open and the silver eyes meet me. "You're starting to scare me," he says. Strange, this lovely boy is. He says he's scared but he's grinning from ear to ear.

I reach up and tap him on the nose, two times as well. "I was just thinking," I say.

"You're wierd when you think," he says. The moon is full, a lovely silver similar to his eyes, and the stars are out, illuminating us wholly in the dark. Our eyes are completely leveled with each other.

I still can't believe Gale's as tall as me now. Amazing how fast-working his growth spurt is. Just last year, I towered over him by a whole head. Back when we first met, I honestly thought that he was younger than me. He was so scrawny, one thigh of mine was approximately the same size as his torso. I was really taken aback when I found out he's two years older than me. At this rate, he'll be taller than me in no time at all. But even if he grows up to be eight feet tall or more, I don't think I'll ever have the heart to let go of the nickname I've given him years ago. "I'm well aware of that, kid," I say, and his glimmering silver eyes crinkle ever so nicely.

This day began with such melancholy that I had no idea it would end so well.

After retrieving the basket of apples that Gale's father had left behind, we went back to their place. They insisted I have dinner with them, and so I did. But I didn't really get much eating done since Mr. Hawthorne was such an entertainer, telling me of his son's epic adventures as a baby, much to Gale's disdain. My cheeks still feel cramped from all the laughing I did. When supper was finished, we went off to the Meadow, as we usually do when my visits are about to end. Gale brought some of the apples, apparently keen on the fact that I barely ate anything at their place. It may have been the funny baby stories, but it's mostly because they barely have enough for themselves. I try to take as little as possible from them. The Hawthornes live in the Seam, and being a miner isn't exactly the most glamorous job around District 12. That's why Gale's father resorts to picking apples even if the risk of doing so is quite large. They keep some for themselves, and the rest are sold in the Hob, District 12's local black market. It's illegal, all of it. But be that as it may, the fact is that _the apples help them get by._

Gale raises his thick brows and points to his watch, a present I gave him on his recent birthday, which he's never taken off ever since. Apparently, it's time to get going. "I don't wanna leave yet," I whine.

"Same here," he says as he holds out a hand. I clasp onto it instinctively and we start walking. "But we _need_ to,"

"No we _don't_," I say confidently. He just snorts in reply. After that, we stay quiet for the rest of the way, engrossed in our own thoughts.

We approach my house. Every time he walks me home I can't help but be embarrassed a tinge. I live in the heart of the merchant section, the inner part of District 12. Compared to the Seam, the residents here are far better off. A lot of houses here are two-storey, the first floor usually being their respective family businesses and the second floor their living space. But my house doesn't exactly blend in with the rest.

It towers above the other houses, an angry glowering thing of white, green and cream, and is thrice as wide. It looks better when the paint is slightly worn off, which is how it looks most of the time. But at the moment its colors are offending, freshly-painted just two days ago, making it stand out even more as if its size weren't enough of an in-your-face thing. Totally obnoxious. The muted version looks more attractive, hands down. This new coat of paint dilemma is the case only when someone from the Capitol will be staying with us, using the place as some sort of hotel. Oh, joy of _joys_.

Before I go any nearer towards the uninviting place, a thought hits me. I think it shows on my face too, because Gale's expression has turned expectant. "Spill it, Undersee," he says. It's amazing how this boy could tell. Very few people can read me, and sometimes I fool myself. _But never him_. He always knows, somehow.

"Spill what?" I ask, pretending not to know what he's talking about.

"Your guts," he says. He prods me gently on the shoulder. "C'mon, out with it."

"I was just thinking how horrible you'd look if you dyed your hair pink," I look down and study my boots. They seem so interesting all of a sudden. I chuckle a bit when I picture him sporting the color on his mane. "You'd have to do your brows too so they'd match,"

He laughs genuinely at this, but he still knows I'm lying. When he collects himself, he continues, "No, seriously," He patiently waits for me to respond. I hesitate, turning the thought over and over in my head. It seemed so plausible just a second ago, but now I'm not so sure. Should I still...

"We could do it, you know," I say quietly, now looking him straight in the eye. Then all around us. Then to my door. _I hope no one can hear me_.

His brows furrow in curiosity. "Do what, exactly?" he says slowly.

"Leave the district. Run off!" I whisper excitedly as I turn away from him and throw my hands in the air at the grandeur of the idea. "Live in the woods," I say a little too loudly. When I turn back around, he just ogles at me, wide-eyed, like my nose suddenly went missing and my bellybutton had somehow taken its place. I stride over to close the distance between us and whisper again, only this time more urgently, insisting, demanding, "You and I, we could make it,"

His initial surprise turns into a sad smile, as if he's seeing a girl who's still convinced that her dead pet is just sleeping, and he'd been assigned the tormenting task of breaking the truth to her. "And then what?" he whispers back.

"And then we'll be _free_," I say between gritted teeth.

"Free but _dead_," he says softly. "What do you want us to do, live on apples for the rest of our lives?"

"If it means getting out of here, then yes," I answer. His eyes bore into mine, trying to decipher me. Their silver color appears to be glowing in the moonlight, making him look like some sort of unearthly cat. I look to my house. The light in my mother's room is on, a rare occasion. Wonder if she's awake. Finally, he gives a small laugh and shakes his head at my silly notions.

"Sounds good. Really, it does. In truth, I wouldn't love anything more," I feel myself smile. He agrees with me. "But," He looks at his feet. My smile vanishes. But what, exactly? He takes both of my hands and looks up. His expression is heartbreaking, simply heartbreaking.

"But what?" I ask.

"It's easier said than done," His grip tightens. "Just wishful thinking,"

"There's nothing wrong with that," I say, and I squeeze back. "Great things start with wishful thinking," A phantom of a smile plays at his lips, but his eyes remain hollow. _Yet still they remain so lovely_. He lets go of me and takes a small step back.

"Yeah, well," he says as he scratches the back of his head. "You should go on. Don't want you dozing off in school tomorrow,"

A laugh escapes me. "Sure, of course. We wouldn't want that, now would we?" It's going to be tough staying awake tomorrow. I have arithmetic, my worst subject. Not because I have the lowest marks, no, my grades are just fine. It's the worst because my teacher, Mr. Pevlynn, is probably the most boring person I've ever met. _Ever_. Other teachers can be bland in class, but colorful once the bell rings. Others are fun, both in and out of the classroom. But him? No, none of that. He _hates_ teaching. Said so himself. And he certainly does a good job of making sure that everybody knows it. He takes it out on his students, punishing them by being unbearably, sadistically boring.

Gale walks over and gives me a quick hug, but not too fast that I don't get to catch a whiff of him. He's always smelled like apples, even when we were little. But now I think I smell a hint of pepper on him. Not that I'm complaining. They smell very nice together. "Later, Undersee,"

"See you tomorrow, Hawthorne," I relish every syllable of his name, then I walk away reluctantly.

I skip towards my house, trying to make my now grim mood less obvious to him. I can tell he's still watching, waiting for me to get inside to the safe confines of my house.

But that's the thing. My house is _anything but safe_.

I open the door slightly, but the thought of being apart from Gale stops me from entering. I look back to him, and sure enough, he's still there. He gives me a little wave and an apologetic smile. He knows I dread my own house.

It's not a home. In a home you would feel secure; you would see it as a sanctuary. But this house is a just a shell, just a roof over my head. Not that I'm ungrateful. My house is arguably one of the most luxurious ones around here. A lot of people want to trade places with me, thinking I'm so lucky. I'm not blind to that. I'm very much fortunate, that's true, but only to a certain extent. Most people worry about not having food the next day while I have no such problem. But the spectrum of my worries and the plights of most people in District 12 are_totally_ different. I used to think that I've got it worse than everybody else, but now I don't think that. I mean, I wouldn't know. I'm not going through their problems. I've learned to not compare them. It wouldn't be fair for anyone if I did. Problems are problems _are problems._

I smile and wave back at the boy with the darling eyes. In no way do I want to part from him, but I have to. I unconsciously heave a sigh. He has no idea how much I owe him. _He's my home_.

Choosing to linger by the door no more, I go on inside. No one's here. The clock reads 9:15. I cross the threshold, making my way towards the stairs to get to my room as fast as I can. It's the only place in here that I'm convinced I'm safe. At this time, I should be in trouble, but He's not here. Scot-free, thank goodne-

"You're late,"

I freeze in my tracks. He can't be here. Why is He here? He's not supposed to be here. It's too early. Why would He be around at this time? He's supposed to arrive around midnight. Or later. I scream in my head. This wasn't supposed to happen.

_He's here, I'm dead._

"You know I get terribly worried about you when you're out too late, dear _Magpie_," His voice, coming from the den to my right, is warm and gentle. If I were stupid, I'd think he was actually genuinely concerned for me, but I know better. His voice, underneath all that feigned gentleness, is pure venom, of this I'm resolute.

"Come," he commands, letting the venom slither through a tad more obviously. Now isn't the time to cross him. I wordlessly walk to the den with quick steps. My eyes automatically land on His chair, a plush one made of velvet in a bloody shade of maroon. But he's not there.

"Over here, honey," Spinning around, I see Him sitting by the piano. I realize only now that I've been holding my breath. But I'm too scared to even attempt to inhale. He rises and looks over His shoulder. People say that I have His eyes. His angry, near-translucent eyes. I take no comfort in the semblance we have to each other. His eyes are soulless, constantly trying to unravel me until I'm nothing. How can I see that as a compliment? I can't share eyes with someone like Him. I just _can't._

"Well?" His tone is icy.

"I'm sorry," I say as calmly as I can, trying to stop my knees from shaking. And failing.

He briskly slams his fists against the piano keys, rendering a wretched, ominous sound from it. "It's alright, darling. A good sorry's going to cut it, of course it will," His voice eerily stays sunny. That's how you know that He's truly ticked off. He slowly makes His way from the piano, then to me. "But it's just that your mother and I have been waiting here for hours, you see, worried to no end," His hand latches onto my hair and His nails dig deep into my scalp. He pulls my head back, forcing me to look up at him. Wild eyes, shouting nostrils, spit connecting to my face. "To no _end_, Madge" He's not going to let this pass. We're doing this. _Again_.

He pulls and raises me with such sudden force that my feet reflexively flail, hitting Him on one of His legs, making Him madder still. But He doesn't scream. He's always quiet with these things. When I was younger, He used to shout more. But He has years of experience to back Him up now, so I guess the silence comes effortlessly.

His nose widens even more, if that's even possible, and He flings me in the piano's direction. His throw comes a bit short, and I land painfully on the floor, my head crashing against the edge of the piano stool. I do my best to stifle a groan. It's an unspoken rule that I don't make a sound, just like Him. On the instances that I let even the smallest yelp come out of me, the blows just get harder. The beatings just last longer. Don't want that.

So I just remain splayed there. Quiet. Uncomplaining. _Just as He likes_.

His foot rests on my stomach. Then He grinds on it repeatedly, carefully working up to my diaphragm, making sure that the pain is distributed equally. After that He slams His foot mercilessly against my ribs. "Stop dawdling and get up," He gruffly says with a crazed grin. This amuses Him. His favorite thing to use is His feet. "No use wasting our time, now," He watches me as I clumsily force myself up. My back cricks, my vision swims and my legs feel funny. A small crackled sound comes out of one of my knees and I slump back down towards the cold floor, only to barely stop it by sharply propping an elbow on the piano stool. "You're probably wondering why I'm home so early," Yes. Home. That's what this forsaken place is. "Ask me why,"

I open my mouth to do so, but I only manage a pathetic whimper. This is bad. He hates it when I don't immediately do what he says. He marches over and clutches my face, squeezing and squeezing until I'm sure I'm gonna break. "Go on, ask," he says sweetly. I try again, mustering all the strength in my body and concentrating it in my lungs, but my throat feels dry. And the way he holds my jaw doesn't exactly make things easier. A minuscule groan escapes, and He clenches harder. He then shakes my maw relentlessly, causing me to bite on my tongue forcibly. A foreign warmth quickly spreads inside my mouth. "Darling Magpie," Again with the _Magpie._ "You should do as you're told. Now," He pushes me to the floor again. Blood, I taste _blood_. "I think you have something to ask me," He crouches down, leveling his face with mine. He smiles at me, nodding encouragingly.

It hurts. Everything hurts. But if I don't speak, more hurt will surely come. I mumble and sputter, blood dripping down my lips and messing up our floor. Is it a coincidence that whenever I bleed, it's usually at this spot by the piano? Maybe He favors this particular area. Again, I struggle, but finally I manage to let it out. "Why?"

"Why what?" he asks, his smile gets wider, radiant, as if proud of my achievement.

My heart. It hasn't sped up the whole time. I'm sure it used to so, when these things first started to happen. And that was such a long time ago. Now I can barely feel it beating. Are we so far gone that I've eventually gotten used to this?

"Why are you here," Why are you here? You're barely ever here. But when You are, we don't talk. Or this happens. Why do I even bother trying to understand You? _Why am I still here?_ "So early?"

He claps His hands, delighted. "Good question!" He picks me up with deceitful care, places me on his hideous chair and drags a stool across me. He sits and folds His arms, all businesslike. "I've made arrangements, you see,"

"For what?" This time I ask out of true interest, while wiping at the hot blood trickling down my chin.

He bares His teeth at me, eyes shining. "We're going back tonight,"

_Oh no._"Oh okay," I don't know why I'm surprised. I knew all along I had to go back. Just two nights ago, I was down there. But the thought of going underground again irks me. And what's more, that's the place where they keep _It._"When do we-"

"In half an hour," he says. With that, He stands up and departs for His office upstairs. I don't dare to move until I hear the door close behind Him. The relief washes over me so hard that I feel the air come out of me.

I stand and check myself. Nothing major, just the usual bruises that no one will see. Except for the one on my forehead. I carefully set weight on my legs, testing them to see if anything's permanently broken. In a few minutes, I think I'll be able to walk probably again. But I better take good care and keep an eye out for any more crackling coming out of my joints. I massage my jaw and saunter over to the kitchen and turn the tap on. I rinse my mouth, ridding it of blood, but I still feel my tongue throbbing. I march over to a drawer, grabbing the shears, then to the refrigerator, for some ice, and then I head up to my room. Once there, I go through the motions. Ice on my forehead, clean clothes with an astounding lack of blood on them, trying to mentally mend myself. I stare at myself in the mirror that takes up a whole wall. Even with ice, the bruise looks bad. Got no choice, I guess.

I grab the shears and get clumps of my hair. I snip carefully at the ends. Then, scared I'll mess up, I grab a ruler. If I'm going to give myself a quick haircut might as well do it properly.

Observing myself, I see that my face lies. Yet again, It's calm. Peaceful. Serene, even. But inside I'm anything but what I appear to be. Looks like Gale was right. I'll be sleeping in school tomorrow. Because I'll be gone for hours. We're going down again. Down to District 13.

This is gonna be a long,_long_ night.


	4. Chapter 4: The Accident

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and nobody, nobody but you.**

**(!) Some cussing in this chapter.**

* * *

She's not here.

Looked everywhere. Classrooms, hallways, even the library. No sign of her. I try to smooth down the crease I've created between my brows with cold fingers. Many glimmers of blonde headed girls have passed me today, but the shade of gold they had was never right. Too dark, too ashy, too bland. None of them are her kind of gold. None of them are like Madge.

I heave a sigh as I rest my back against the old, beaten up lockers. Break's almost over, and the hallways are teeming with students, buzzing about. But the only person I want to see right now isn't here.

I hope she's okay. Last night, before I had gone too far from her place, I thought I heard a banging on her piano. She's never done that before. She takes awfully good care of the keys, like they were an extension of her body. What could've pushed her to create such a frightening sound? And she hasn't told me why she had been crying earlier that day over her misshapen mess of a snowman. I was hoping she would tell me out of her own accord.

But that's the thing with Madge. As long as she can carry it by herself, she'll do whatever she can to prevent you from knowing what's bothering her. And when you pry, even when you're as gentle as you can possibly manage, she shuts herself tighter. Either she'll change the topic, distract you with something or just plain lie. She's a talented liar, but sometimes she slips. Most people don't see that, falling for her acting, lapping it all up. And she fools me a lot, too. Sometimes I think she even fools herself. But if you look through the cracks carefully, you'll be able to see a hint of it. _The hurt_.

I don't know if it's a blessing or a curse, but she hides it so well.

She never tells me about her problems as she's going through them. Always tells me all about it only when it has passed. When I insist that she could confide in me, she just feeds me one of the small fries like I'm going to buy it. The little problems. How she thinks her hair is never right or how awkward it makes her feel to be the tallest girl in her class or how awful it is to have zits sprout overnight. Trivial stuff like that. I think she knows that I know they're only distractions. Never the real thing, the real problem. It's like she doesn't trust me, it's unfair. I tell her everything. Absolutely everything. When I try to hide things from her, she can smell it so quickly it's almost insulting. And I end up spilling all my thoughts to her.

It's never the other way around. She doesn't break the pattern. But someday she will. Until then, I can wait.

Another bunch of girls walk by and when I look over, a few of them giggle and blush and point and…it's just weird. I've been getting a lot of this lately, and I don't really know how to handle it. A year ago, I'd walk around school and no one would give me so much as a second glance. But now it's different. Madge tells me I should be flattered. But all I end up being is flustered. Not that I don't like this kind of attention, it's definitely a much needed boost to my ego. But it's still a bit overwhelming. And now, the panic is even more intense than usual because these girls are years older than me. Intimidating, giggling, pretty seniors. I'm tempted to look at my feet, or at the lockers behind me, as long as it's anything but their daunting battalion. But I don't want to come off as a snob, or even worse, cocky, so I just look straight back at them. I feel my muscles get tighter and tenser. I'm surprised I haven't snapped a ligament.

One of them waves and smiles at me, the older sister of a classmate of mine I think. I politely smile back at her to show her I recognize her, albeit hardly. Another deafening bout of giggling ensues, but I barely hear any of it when a glint of the right kind of gold catches my eye. The gold I've been searching the entire school for the whole day. I stare at the messy tangle and my chest suddenly flutters, only for it to calm down almost just as quickly.

The golden tone is _exactly_ like Madge's hair. But when the lovely head tossed itself back to reveal the face of which it belonged to, I had to struggle a bit to hide my disappointment.

Lisbeth's her name, if my memory serves me well. I think she's related to the town butcher or something. Her hair is as fair colored, but it's thinner, and very much shorter, compared to Madge's waist-grazing locks. Also, the messiness of it isn't effortless. Quite unnatural on her, really. Years back, I remember her mane to be pin-straight. Maybe she teases it in an effort to get Madge's beautifully chaotic tresses, which she'll never really achieve. A lot of people often mistake them for each other. Besides their hair, people think their eyes are similar, but I have to disagree. Lisbeth's eyes are a pretty, lovely blue hue. But Madge's eyes are different.

Simply calling them blue wouldn't be enough. They're erratically blue, sometimes green, and almost gray. Ask around what color her eyes are and the answers will vary. Her inquisitive eyes are very bright, but hushed and clear. Crystalline, refreshing, ever reflective, and gentle but full of life. Eyes like a mess of sky and water. It's like the color can't decide between the two things, so it simply went with both.

But I'd be lying if I say Lisbeth's no stunner. She's _gorgeous_.

From the look on her face, it seems that I've been staring for too long. Her gaggle of friends whisper frantically at each other and snicker some more as they drift right by me. I nearly choke on my spit when she deliberately winks at me. And as soon as they came, they were gone. I didn't even have time to fake her a smile. Some guys from the higher batches who had witnessed the whole thing give me whistles and rough pats on my back. Whether it's sarcastic or meant to be reassuring, I have no idea. I press my forehead against the cool surface of the lockers. Damnit. _Why do girls scare me so much_?

"Problem, young Gale?" A heavily bearded elderly man with a sunken face and unbecoming potbelly stops all my girl-related notions. He was my music teacher a few hairlines back. Couldn't really remember his name. All I can recall is that his classes had an astounding lack of life in them. I used to sleep in his subject.

That's quite an achievement if you ask me, as music class is actually one of my favorites. "Not a one, sir," I lie.

"You sure?" he leans against the locker to my right. "You look like you could use some cheering up. You look too stressed for a boy your age,"

"Thirteen is a very stressful age,"

"Ah, quite. I know, I know," He straightens the hem of his shirt. "For I was thirteen once myself. Although, as you can imagine," He smiles at his feet. "It was a very long time ago,"

I glance down at my own pair. What's his name again? "Does it get any easier?"

"Oh dear, no," he chuckles. "No, no, no. Well, actually, yes and no. It's different for everyone, my boy. The only constant is troubles," He shakes his head at me. "They're always around,"

"Life never does run out of those," I mumble.

"Life's a bitch," he says, still smiling. "Such a beauty, but still. A _bitch_," I like this guy. It's a shame that I really can't find his name anywhere in my mind.

"Yeah, she is," I allow myself to laugh with him. And after that, we remain quiet for some time. Just watching people shuffle around us. But then he coughs and severs our silence.

"Do you know Madeleine Undersee?" he asks. Well, that was out of the blue. But coincidentally, within context. Strange.

I stare at him for a while. What a question. _Do I know her?_ I've been looking for her all day. He scratches his head, probably mistaking my silence as unfamiliarity. "I mean, Madge, the mayor's daughter?" Yep.

Of course I know her. Everybody knows _her_. You don't even have to mention her relations. People know Madge, how could they not? Sticks out like a sore thumb wherever she goes. "Um. Yes I do,"

"Well, have you seen her around today? I was hoping to talk to her about something," Well, that makes two of us, old man. "Something important,"

"No, I haven't, sir. Actually, I was just looki—"

Blaring sirens deluge my ears from all directions, and numerous screams add to the shrill duet. Everybody is still for a few seconds, confused. Then, alarm follows. The sirens only go off when something's wrong.

The mines. Father. _Something's wrong._

A new throng of kids of all sizes come rushing out of classrooms, clashing into those in the hallway. I try and maneuver myself to the nearest door, but I'm pushed along with the flow of the swarm of children. Don't even have to move my feet. After a few minutes of bedlam, all students are out the door. The huge horde that is the entire student body makes its way to the direction of the mines. Some are running, frantic to know what's happened. Some are already crying, afraid of what awaits. A few are seemingly indifferent, walking calmly. I fall under this category.

And even fewer are having fun, laughing at the pandemonium. One of them is Thom, a friend of mine. He's in my year and is a complete jackass. Two smaller boys whom I know to be brothers walk shakily past him and his faction of jerks. The younger one is blubbering loudly and helplessly while the older one whispers comforting things whilst trying to put on a brave face, though it's evident in his mildly swollen eyes that he's done a bit of crying himself.

"Oh, c'mon you crybabies," Thom barks at them. "Don't worry, the siren won't get you," He hoots mockingly as he shoves the older one sharply in the shoulder.

"Leave them alone, Thom," I say as I march over to him, wrenching his hand away from them before he could do anything else.

His hands go up in fake surrender and his little herd of numbskull _friends_ laugh even more. "Okay, okay, Gale," I watch as the two kids scurry along, grateful to be away from the bigger boys. "Don't get your nuts all tied up, I was just teasing,"

"Now isn't the time for that," I snap at him.

One of his pack members, a skinny boy with a pointed nose, answers me this time. "Chill, it's just a drill," They all cackle and slap each other's palms, proud at the poetry their friend had concocted.

"Yeah, Gale, just chill," says Thom. What I wouldn't give to smack that stuck-up look on his face right now.

"You guys go right ahead. _Chill_," I snarl at them. "I'd love to see all your small-ass nuts freeze _the fuck over_,"

I turn on my heel, only to be stopped roughly by Thom. "The hell with that temper? Don't take this drill shit so seriously, would you?"

"And you owe us a bit of an apology," says another, a stumpy one this time.

I jab a finger at his nose. "I owe you _nothing_," Then I point at Thom's. "And this drill shit," I stomp closer. "Is no drill, stupid. Get that through your thick skull. If it was, we wouldn't even be walking to the mines," We'd be lining up right outside the school, on the grounds, and teachers will be making rounds, taking attendance. It takes some of them a while to process this, but looks like Thom finally realizes the urgency of it all, for his face is mortified. He shakes his head violently and makes a run for it, knocking one of his cronies backwards in the process.

I turn away from the rest of them and keep pace with Thom's back. Glad he's thinking straight now, but my face is still hot. Thom isn't always this idiotic. Only when he's with those _friends_ of his does he act like that.

When I finally reach the mines, I'm greeted by a huge crowd of worried families and lots of coal-dusted men emerging from the mining elevator. As soon as all of them had safely set foot on the ground, the elevator wastes no second and makes its way back down again. This cycle repeats, on and on. And with each time, my father is nowhere to be seen. The mass slowly thins, until only a few people are left. The elevator comes up, and only less than a dozen men come forward. Their families rush to them and hurriedly take them home.

But not me, I have no one to bring home. Because my father's gone. And it's for good.

I feel my eyes water. I look up to the sky, a tranquil kind of blue opposing the bleak mood here on the ground. Trying to fight back the tears, I clamp my eyes shut. I'll cry, I will, but not here. But it's hard not to, especially with moans of lament surrounding you. I look around and see Thom wailing while his mother hugs herself. Some of his other friends are mourning with their families too, Stumpy being one of them. Only three of them have their families untouched, one of them being Skinny. _Chill, it's just a drill,_ I mouth venomously at him. Then he tears up too.

Everyone's crying.

Except for one girl. Probably Madge's age. She holds two weeping blondes in her hands, one is a small girl and the other a woman I recognize. The Healer. My father had brought me to her once when I had sprained my ankle when I was little. The steel gaze of the Seam girl holding the Healer stays trained on the elevator, maybe hoping for more survivors to come out. But _none_ will come.

Our eyes meet, and it's the strangest thing, like looking into a mirror. Both our eyes are threatening to pour, but the similarities don't end there. She could be my sister, they're the same shape, the same color. And the same tinge of abandonment haunts them. _Our eyes are the same._

Then she looks away and beckons what remains of her family to get up from the snowy ground and go home. They slowly walk away. The little blonde girl sniffles quietly, the Seam girl remains stoic while the Healer stays hysterically broken. Funny how she's the one comforting her mother when it should be the other way around.

Funny how I'm already trying to distract myself from all this.

Again, I scale my surroundings. Only a handful of people left. I should go; no one's left down there. But I can't bring my feet to move. My house is a whole new kind of empty. I can't possibly go in there.

The sound of a blunt thud makes my head move to the right. Three to five blackened miners are trying to help one of their own up. Probably fatigued from whatever happened down there. I walk over to help, but stop dead when I take a look at the fallen miner's eyes.

Eyes like a mess of sky and water.


End file.
